This is a story from the perspective of the mother of my great grandmother, who lived through the turn of the 20th century (1900). It has elements of truth – the basic plot line – and elements of fiction – her ways of understanding and emotionally responding to all that happened. Back then, and now. 

Sit down at this table with me, child, this table that I do not recognise, made from a material I do not recognise, in this land that you seem to feel so fervently is lost to you. Let me cook you something, you look too skinny. 

I was married to my husband when I was younger than you are now, and had my first child much younger than you are today. We lived in Punjab, in the north western part of India. My husband was a dreamer, in the language of your world. In mine, he was an irresponsible and selfish pissant. He used to go to the docks of the Gujarat province under the pretense of work – he was a chef’s assistant, a trader. Of sweets and spices, if you can imagine. 

The whole world was always on his tongue, at his fingertips. He would go away often, sometimes for weeks at a time, to the ports on the other side of the country in Gujarat. I used to gleefully imagine the scorn he might have received, a man from a small world out of place in the vastness of the dock. One day, I myself felt the way that the whole universe spun into place around that dock. I’ll tell you about that later. Suffice to say that eventually the scorn faded, and today it brings me joy to picture Kurpuram walking along old wooden planks over the glittering sea in between fishers and travelers, blown in by wind and ocean currents, soon to be blown out by the same forces of energy. He would have felt at home in the listlessness of his own body, the boundlessness of his imagination, the winds on the dock allowing the wind in his mind to feel at peace. 

One day, the wind picked up in his body at the same time as his mind, and he blew onto a boat bound for East Africa. It took me a while to realise that he wasn’t coming home. It took me less than a minute to realise I would be leaving India, likely never to return. What life did a woman have without her husband? My family wouldn’t take me back. There would be no way of providing for myself or my child. No other man would be able to touch me with my consent, though they would all be allowed to touch me without it. It would be a life worse than death. So I packed a bag for myself and my child and went to the dock. 

I was furious, I’m sure you can imagine. I stoked the fury carefully, then set it to one side and focused on the journey. I found that myself and my child were protected by watchful eyes as we crossed the country from Punjab to Gujarat. The path across religions and cultures was a treacherous one: the British had done their work well and nurtured the mistrust that we all regard each other with. Yet each day someone fed us and put shelter over our heads. And so each day I grew further from home than I had ever been, and I found that I could not look back. Finally, we arrived at the port in Gujarat. 

I saw the sea! Something rose and threatened to break from my chest, though it did not of course. This magnetic thing, the ocean was like my heart. It pushed and pulled with a strength unswayed by love or passion. Glistening and still in the sun, wrathful under stormy skies. I watched my reflection sway on top of its sun dappled depths before melting into the lightness of the sky and the darkness of the sea. I took my own steps on the wooden planks that brought people out to stand on the sea. I held my child close. It took a while to find out where Kurpuram went. East Africa. I found a boat, stepped onto its rocking body, let go of the land, let go of my life, held onto my child, felt new. 

We watched Mombasa rise from the ocean. It did not glitter in the way that your cities glitter now: as though they could pretend to be the sea stretching skywards, all that glass and plastic. It pulsed with something else, some energy I had never seen before. The loudness at the port was different, the ground felt different. The people looked different, though the whites were still in charge, of course. 

I found him in that golden town. A woman has her ways. You should have seen his face! ‘I was sent here,’ he tried to tell me, but I knew it wasn’t true. The whole world is a village when you are from India. Even before the existence of these wireless group messaging systems you describe, we had our ways of staying connected to our people. And we were to be connected, for life. I had had plenty of time to perfect what I would say to him and I executed it flawlessly, there in that bar. The rage, the acceptance, the deal that we would grow together but never love. Finally, he understood. We would grow, and live, and never love. You can do that, you know. Your generation seems to have forgotten, though if you look closely that seems to be all many of you do. You can hold your family together, a glue so clear that you will not see it if you don’t look. Clothes mingling in the laundry pinned to the line, food eaten from plates that each person will come to use. Your husband and your children, coming face to face day after day at meals shared around the table. And one day, perhaps, love will grow. But again, maybe it won’t. There are things more important than love.

Here, it was all different. He had left, we were not going back. There was a new life to build, new methods of survival to sink into. We stayed at the coast and he made a name for himself; he was quite a good cook, and a convincing salesman. I cared for the kids, sent them to school, learned the language, started a loaning scheme amongst the women around me. Micro-credit, I think you would say. 

Eventually we moved to the mountains, the promise of a new business ringing in his ears, the knowledge that I would be able to develop a new loaning system swirling around mine. That glistening ocean that we had lived beside for so many years had become a medium for us, and we were swayed together. We did not need the sea anymore. The cool forest was good for my children, they learned to take care of themselves and each other. Rhinos roamed the forests but the horses we had could sense them and would take off, alerting the children to danger. I could focus on my business, gathering new clients for my loaning scheme, getting to know the women here. Kurpuram sold timber to the British. He also hid the Mau Mau warriors, the Kenyan colonial resistance movement, in between the felled trees whenever the British came to look for them. Our cook would feed them if they ever passed by, too. The British and the Mau Mau. Justice never figured much into our calculations. The long and short end of the stick seemed to be a matter of perspective. We were at home and we would never belong again. Not Kenyan, not white, but still, at home. 

I told you of the dreams of my husband. And what of my dreams? No one ever asked me. Even now, you will not learn my name, only the name of my husband. I am proud of the life that I had. It was a life that I made. I kept my family together as we built lives for ourselves. I had children, who had children, who had children. I walked amongst trees and waves, sand and soil, people grown in lands distant to mine. I helped people like me live the lives they hoped for themselves. I have been a part of the dreams of others. Because of me, you dream today.

I am proud because we are a part of the story that brought you to the earth’s door. And now, you are a part of us. And look at you, your bright face, your freedom. You have flown across the world, dreaming of other lands. You have my husband in you. You speak the language of our coloniser and possess all of the gifts he promised that we would have if we followed him.

You have taken me around the places of this world that you wanted to show me. You have told me all the ways you think we are destined for destruction. The story of Kenya’s deforestation and drought today is my story, mine and Kurpuram’s. It is your story, too. The logs that hid the Mau Mau, that funded our family’s success, are, you say, the seeds of a country’s barrenness. We did what we had to do to survive. It’s all we can do. We were not alone. Do not underestimate yourself, your ability to change the world around you. 

You want me to react to your world? I am. It looks different, it sounds different, but the spirit of the people is the same. We are capable of building and destroying in equal measure. We had to cut down the forest to protect ourselves. It was what was demanded and expected of us. It seems that what you must do to protect yourselves today is the opposite. The tides have changed, it is time to let the trees grow back.

You want me to feel? All I can do is tell you what I know. I was never one for feeling. I observed. I took every opportunity I was given without a thought for the consequences. The consequences of not acting were always worse. Looking back at my life from the comfort of many years and from the reality of yours today, I wonder what I could have achieved if I had been afforded the freedom to feel. I wonder if I would have managed to do anything. Perhaps my ruthlessness carved out a space of safety, allowed you to turn into the sensitive woman you are today. The path I took away from my insecurity has led towards your security, your ability to navigate through the turmoil of the planet, its rolling seas of people and damage. Let go of your haste to anger, your desire to blame. I spent years blaming Kurpuram for the way he abandoned me, but when I look back at the life I had, I find no grudge. It is easy to waste time on the things you cannot change. So what if this system collapses? It is not yours to hold onto, nor is it yours to shun. 

You want roots? These are your roots. Live well, knowing that soon you will be a root yourself. You want a love that transcends the ages? You will not receive it in the language you so desperately desire to hear it in. But it is there, for you and in you. I rejoice to see the freedom that you have, my child. Remember, even a free person is a part of a family. Family is all you have, and we will be with you, wherever you go. You don’t like the way the world works? Neither did I. All you can do is try to fix what you don’t like, and enjoy what you do. But be careful, please. Remember that you are never alone. What you live and dream and think is passed into you, my child. 

You tell me you are lost, that you have no home. You say ‘we’ are lost, you speak about some sort of whole as if it were whole. You speak like you have lost sight of the ground beneath your feet. You speak as if you had lost your body, lost the ability to check whether your pulse is beating. Rip out the tarmac if you have to. Do it with your own hands. Find the soil, and decide what it is that you will destroy. Decide what you will build. Go and do it.